Monday, December 17, 2012

portrait of tuesday morning

who's year is this?,
did i borrow this from you, it's on me now.
___do you mind then?

seems familiar enough now that i try and decide
what shape box to put it back into.

___like (always ) its edges are tattered now.
___feels normal to touch , like your girlfriend's skin.
______(in january it was so electric!)

it drips along the sides some year. too much for one box.
needs to be hacked down.
some years a little sandpaper does the trick.

it's too neat now. sits right in.
maybe even slides around a little.

such small twelve months
(no one, not even the rain has such small hands -
indeed no one does, your hands are huge.
they cast a shadow from monday now till monday next.
every minute under your shadow:

'two thousand and twelve'

sits there like gravity or beautiful women who know what they are:
simple facts of reality.
unavoidable, inescapable facts.
brutal, really.

'two thousand and twelve'

just like that.

as december has its arms disassembled three things come to mind:
bow ties that i learned to tie,
a purple tin shed that i scribbled my name on the outside of,
and slept one-eye-open on the inside of:
and magic little pills i (mostly) ignored the calls of.
___(Odysseus with wax in his ears -
___ sing then, sing if you will.

on this tuesday: two thousand and twelve long decembers.

and counting. 

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